


the life to come (told you i'd be the one)

by Anonymous



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: (as married), Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Fluff, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Schmoop, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 09:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17660042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s not that Chris didn’t see it coming.





	the life to come (told you i'd be the one)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).



> Just a long-overdue expression of gratitude that I'd hoped would also coincide with the holidays, but. 
> 
> Not what was intended; yet, it was what came out, and that's what counts. I hope you like it.
> 
> Title credit to The Killers.

It’s not that Chris didn’t see it coming. 

Hell, he saw this coming a mile away, years ago. Long overdue, but even bigger than he could have imagined, and all the more deserved for it. No: it’s not that Chris didn’t see it coming. 

It’s more that the life that’s come along _with_ it is so far from what he could have dreamed, _dared_ to dream, that sometimes he’s dizzy with it. Most times, he’s breathless with it.

It’s so much _more_ than what Chris saw coming, is the thing that throws him every time.

After he bows out of the Marvel gamut, he figured he’d give being behind the camera a solid go, but it never clicked, not the way that acting did, and acting wasn’t quite what he wanted, not then -- not now. He does theatre here and there still, but it’s mostly just when he’s stir-crazy, impulsive and self-indulgent and masochistic enough to get out there and let his nerves eat him from the inside as much as the buzz of adrenaline moves his lips and limbs beyond his frantic mind’s control, just that little bit more outside of himself, enough to embody someone else, something else.

And for the nerves, now there’s always a balm. A soothing voice and a steadying hand and a strong, steady chest to hide in when he needs it. 

For the nerves, there’s always, _always_ Sebastian.

Chris had told himself for so many years he couldn’t have the thing he wanted -- more and more with every look, every breath from the moment he first saw him, from the first night he went to his hotel after a table read and skipped the bisexual freakout (way past that in life) and swapped it out for a dear- _god_ -I’ve-never-felt-like-this-and-I-barely-know-him-but-I-think-I-want-to-give-him- _everything_ , a sentiment that only swelled in his chest for every day they spent together, tightened between his lungs all the more every every day they spent apart.

For nearly _ten years_.

And Chris had tried, he really had. He told himself a number of vaguely-believable stories that could _just_ qualify as excuses alongside a great deal of flat-out, selfish lies: Sebastian hadn’t had the same opportunities that Chris had enjoyed, not yet -- he wouldn’t want to be tied down. He might be hobbled by a relationship with a man in ways he didn’t deserve when what he deserved more than anything was to be happy, was to have the whole word see what Chris saw: a generation-defining actor with the subtle brilliance of the greatest of the greats. Sebastian had told him he was bi -- before Chris had confessed the same, because Sebastian was brave in ways Chris would never be, had been moulded into diving in headfirst by necessity from an early age, but he’d refined it to an art, a beautiful art, for a man who was so much more than just _beautiful_ , good _god_ \--

Well.

Anyway, Sebastian had told him he was bi in a hotel room, just the two of them, with beers and a little bit of some liquor in some soda that’d tasted too fucking sweet for Chris to _not_ wish he was tasting it on Sebastian’s tongue instead of his own, and that was the singular thought, the miniscule stretch of seconds that Chris allowed himself to think on it as a possibility in the real world -- but just a moment. Only a moment, because hell. Just because Sebastian liked men too didn’t mean he liked _Chris_.

Not to mention he could do so much fucking _better_.

But yeah. Between consequences and inadequacy and sheer improbability, which in Chris’ mind almost always translated to _impossibility_ because it was usually one and the same, he’d pined quietly. Dated serially. Once shooting on _Endgame_ had wrapped he’d taken on a few art house films that’d managed decent reviews and midling returns, tried his hand unsuccessfully at a screenplay of his own, gone on retreat in Eastern Europe. It had never been about the money, which he had more than enough of to keep himself and those he loved more than comfortable for the rest of all their lives, and that’s all he truly cared about. He wasn’t looking for another franchise, or another blockbuster. Possibly ever. That was never who he was, much as he loved most of what his time as Steve Rogers had given him, Sebastian being at the top of that list -- just a glance would have been enough to justify the whole decade but his friendship, his love in any capacity even if Chris never worked another day in this life -- he would, else he’d get lost in his mind so far he’d never surface again, would drown and not even notice when he was left alone, when there was no one there to remind him to breathe -- but.

Point being: he was more than taken care of.

But yes. He’s mostly out of the tabloids, entirely out of the magazines. Without the muscles and in a pair of jeans he’s not even recognized all that much anymore, and he feels ungrateful as hell admitting it, but it’s a relief. And that’s an understatement.

It’s around that point, though, that he realizes that most of his lies and excuses don’t hold water anymore. Because when he goes to sleep in a bed big enough for three and hogs the blankets from no one, when he’s cold or melancholy or entirely lost in the darkest places in his head, he imagines arms. He almost feels a rising-falling chest pressed against him, both sensations stolen from friendly embraces, platonic touches over the years: embellished by his mind -- even the scent.

He feels Sebastian. And by then, he’s willing to admit to himself that it’s love. He’s in love. 

He _won’t_ admit how long it’s been love, though, because he’s got enough self-loathing going on in his head and if he can leave that one on a leash for a little longer, that’d be nice.

But Sebastian’s unattached, and he’s been in Oscar nominated films, _he’s_ been nominated for a Golden Globe and there’s considerable buzz he’ll snag a Best Actor nom this year from the Academy. Sebastian’s had the career Chris knew he’d get, but then he’d gone further, and faster than light with it, and Chris is quietly aching and vocally proud whenever Sebastian calls -- every now and again, but never less than once a month -- or when Chris himself reaches out to congratulate him on an opening or a glowing review or a new upcoming release or a SAG award Sebastian’s up for. And Chris cherishes those conversations like the beat of his heart, wing-swift with the cadence of Sebastian’s words and the breaths between them over the line, and he doesn’t let himself linger on how the conversations stretch for hours, sometimes, most times, and they laugh and talk about everything and nothing and it’s never awkward, or distant. It’s the most familiar things in Chris’ life, in truth, even though half the time it’s coming from a world away.

But Chris doesn’t linger on those things, because that way lies madness, and Chris is kind of full-up on that, thanks. And Sebastian’s never in Boston, really, and Chris is only in New York when he takes on a play, which he hasn’t in more than a year now. He’s _never_ in LA, which he’s stupidly happy about, except when Sebastian is there. They haven’t been in the same room in far too long, and Chris a) should have gotten over this years ago, and b) shouldn’t put a scrap of hope into any of it based on some innocent, if damn-near blissful, phone calls between friends.

 _Friends_.

Which is why it stopped that wing-beating in his chest when one phone call -- from Chris, congratulatory, premiere in London for a huge action things Sebastian’s headlining, not that that’s new these days -- started to wrap to an natural end, but before they say goodbye, Sebastian takes a deep breath.

“So.”

Chris’ mouth is too dry to swallow.

“So?”

“I had a question.”

Chris remembers vividly the way his brow had furrowed, how deeply he’d frowned in confusion before saying: “Shoot.”

“What are you doing this Friday?”

Chris puts Sebastian on speaker to check his calendar. He doesn’t think to question why first.

“Nothing I know of.” He probably didn’t need to check, really. He doesn’t have a whole lot scheduled these days.

“Would you,” Sebastian starts, then stops abruptly. Clears his throat on the other end.

“I mean, how does, if you were, maybe,” Sebastian babbles, and Chris doesn’t know what he’s trying to get at, or why he’s so flustered, but Chris has the almost-painful desire to hug him, and maybe beg him to let Chris stay like that, never letting go.

“London?” Sebastian finally gets out, but without any context?

Chris is so fucking confused.

“You’ll be in London, yeah,” Chris says slowly, trying to figure what he’s missed, replaying the conversation in his head because he catalogues every one of them as best he can so he can keep it and revisit it to hear that voice when he closes his eyes because he’s pathetic, but he’s way beyond caring all that much about it.

“I’ll be in London,” Sebastian confirms, but it’s higher pitched, just by a hair, than it should be. Chris has so much to compare the tone to, and Sebastian’s voice is closer to him than the sound of the blood pumping in his veins.

Again: pathetic. Way beyond caring.

“Would you maybe, you know,” Sebastian swallows hard enough for Chris to hear it.

“Would you maybe like to be here, too?”

And Chris never entirely understood the idea of the world falling away, the ground giving out under your feet and all sensation ceasing entirely in a vacuum of a single moment. He’s had plenty of moment where he believed that he knew these things, but on reflection he’d been dramatic. On comparison, though, to this moment?

He’d been utterly and entirely wrong.

“Fuck,” Sebastian exhales sharply before Chris can realize, can process that it’s Sebastian’s voice that’s the first and onyl thing to break through, because of course it is. _Of course it is_. 

“Fuck, fuck, Chris, forget it, please, just forget I said anything, I can’t believe I, please, _please_ forget I --”

“Yes.”

“Chris, please, just for --” Sebastian stops short, his breath a sharp thing that slices where it tips between doubting and somehow, impossibly _hoping_ , begging and gasping and something unnamed. 

“What?”

“Yes,” Chris says again, growing giddy with it from the center of his chest. He’s never so decisive, so immediate, so impulse, but this isn’t impulsive at all. This is inevitable. “God, I mean,” and Chri stumbles, doesn’t even know what _he_ means when he asks: “Do you, were meaning, like, for me to…”

“Yes!” And Chris thinks maybe Sebastian doesn’t know either, what the ‘yes’ means and implies, but maybe they’re both desperate and maybe somehow Sebastian’s heart is leaping like Chris’, and maybe they’ve both been blind. 

Chris _prays_ that’s what this means. 

“Yes, and you, you’re saying,” Sebastian trails off, and Chris is quick to fill the gap because he doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want any more gaps -- not between them.

“Yes, fuck,” Chris doesn’t think he can see straight, but it doesn’t matter, because he thinks all his ability to do anything is funneled soley into feeling, and the _feeling_ in this moment is the best thing he’s ever known. “ _Yes_.”

Sebastian’s breathy, and sounds so goddamn _young_ when he asks: “Yeah?”

“I,” Chris breaths in deep. “Seb, yes. So much. _Yes_ ”

“I, you,” Sebastian sounds like he’s reeling, and Chris can’t believe any of it, can’t beleive he could have it, this, whatever is it or could be. “Good. Great, I mean...” 

“Where are you staying?”

Sebastian shuffle with something on the other end. “I’ve got the name somewhere but,” he pauses, careful with the words that come next: “I, umm, have a suite?”

Chris swallows, and his mouth is less dry with nerves this time so it works, but it’s loud, and he knows Sebastian hears it.

“There are two rooms, so like, you’ll have your space and we can,” and oh fuck, but Sebastian got that one all wrong, and Chris has to save it, he _has_ to.

“You get in tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“Send me the name,” Chris says, already on his laptop to book the soonest flight into Heathrow. “I’ll meet you there.”

Needless to say, while Chris doesn’t accompany him down the red carpet -- but there’s a distinct sense, after only a few short hours, that maybe that could someday turn from a _doesn’t_ to a _not yet_ \-- they certainly don’t use the second room.

\----------

In the end, they’re registered in a little town in northern Vermont that no one would have looked twice at, on paper in ink forever. They don’t keep it quiet because they’re afraid, just because it’s private: for them, for now, and maybe some day it’ll make sense to make it for everyone else, too. They’ve talked about it, more and more recently, actually. They know it’s more likely a _when_ than an _if_ , and Chris honestly doesn’t mind either way, because Sebastian wears Chris’ ring every moment he doesn’t have to take it off for a scene, every moment he’s _with Chris_ , and the feel of it against Chris’ skin when they touch and the sight of it inside Chris’ pulse amidst Sebastian’s lamentations, something Chris never wishes to hear save that this one’s bittersweet -- when Sebastian says he feels disconnected, untethered, lost without the weight of it, the promise in it, well.

That’s so much more than enough for Chris that it hurts, but the sweet kind. The blessed sort of hurt.

Chris never takes his off, for the very same reasons. He gets anxious when Sebastian’s away, more often than he admits but not more often that Sebastian notices or tries to plan ahead for -- delivery from Chris’ favorite restaurants or hidden notes in Chris’ books or the pantry between the flaps of cereal boxes, or inside his running shoes (and then sometimes beneath the inserts of said shoes, just to be thorough), or a delivery his favorite flowers (hyacinths, which Chris never realized until Sebastian first bought him a bouquet because _Sebastian_ noticed all the things that Chris himself overlooks).

And it’s a beautiful way to live life, really. It’s all the things Chris dreamed of in the most secret places of his heart of hearts. They have their ups and downs, and neither of them change overnight, or in some things not at all, but it’s okay. It’s okay, because they have each other, finally, and Chris feels whole in all the places that felt unbalanced, like pieces of his heart and soul were held too loose for all the things missing that they shivered for the cold of it and trembled for all the extra space. Sebastian holds him tight whenever the change presents himself, and Chris thinks he may just feel exactly the same way.

So it’s a mostly routine evening, or else, routine for when Sebastian’s away. He’s nominated again for a gorgeous film that Chris, as always, went to see on his own because Sebastic cannot stand to watch his own work on the big screen. It’s an arthouse piece that got unprecedented attention because Chris’ husband’s name was attached, and has garnered its share of acclaim for all the best reasons, because it’s quiet and it’s beautiful and Sebastian plays the soft, nuanced, steady lead with so much grace and skill Chris might have teared up for it more than once, and if the character also happens to be gay then Chris doesn’t pretend it doesn’t hit close to home, but he also doesn’t pretend like that simple fact hurts, because it doesn’t. It feels warm, somehow, for reasons Chris can’t articulate, and maybe never could want to.

But Sebastian’s away for the ceremony, which Chris doesn’t watch because it makes him anxious and proud and bereft all at once and it usually sends him spiralling without Sebastian there to ground him, and so he doesn’t watch. He never does.

But he’s making spaghetti so there will be leftovers to last him until Seb gets back in two days, because Sebastian’s a better cook, honestly. And he’s singing along to whatever Top 40 song’s playing on Spotify, something he knows the lyrics to but couldn’t name the title or artist to save his life. 

So he doesn’t hear the door open, but he hears the footsteps just in time to recognize them but not in time to turn, heart leaping because that’s precisely what the owner of those footsteps intended, to the letter.

“Hey handsome,” Sebastian exhales at Chris’ ear, slipping arms around his waist and pulling him in close to his chest.

“You’re back early,” Chris states the obvious, equal parts surprised and grateful.

“Didn’t really feel like celebrating--”

“You _won_ \--” Chris interjects, because Sebastian had texted him as much in over-humble terms, knowing Chris wouldn’t be keeping track.

“Without you,” Sebastian finishes where Chris interrupted. “Didn’t feel like celebrating without _you_.”

Chris still flushes in response to that honesty, that privilege, that _gift_ , even after all this time.

“You didn’t watch,” Sebastian says, a statement.

“You know I don’t.”

Sebastian breaths out slowly, and Chris can feel his heart’s jackrabbit pace against his spine, and he starts to worry, starts to try and turn in Sebastian’s hold but Seb stay firm, holding him tight.

“Maybe turn on the T.V., or refresh your Twitter feed.” The suggestion is firm, if a little choked. “I’ll watch this.”

He gestures to the pot of sauce and Chris does as he’s told, opting to grab his phone nearby and flip open the app.

He barely even has to touch the damn thing before he sees it.

“Oh my god,” Chris breathes, except he can’t, except all the air has suddenly escaped his reach.

“Chris, I,” he starts, and Chris’ heart is pounding as he scrolls, harder and harder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t, I mean, I hope it’s okay,” Sebastian says softly, apologetically, and Chris can tell he doesn’t look up, stirring absently as Chris clicks on links, blinks rapidly at photos wondering idly if they’re real.

“Okay,” Chris echoes, voice far away. “It’s...” and there aren’t words. Or if there are, Chris can’t find them.

So Chris clicks on a video link instead, and lets Sebastian find the words for him.

 _”How about I just go ahead and answer the biggies?_ Sebastian smiles, wide but a little hesitant before the hesitance melts away, the camera not even focusing on his face when he speaks. Yes it’s a wedding ring. He flashes his left hand even closer to the camera. _No, I haven’t been hiding it, we’re just private people. Yes, I wore it tonight because I wanted my partner close to me, because yes, I married the love of my life, I haven’t been home in three days, and I’m missing them something terrible._

There’s a scuffle, the words unclear but the general direction of questions obvious.

 _Who?_ Seb responds, incredulous. _You’re journalists, right? I have faith that you can figure it out._

The video cuts off, and Chris is still blinking, blank somehow for all that roaring, bubbling inside him something fierce. 

“Chris?” And Sebastian’s nearer to him now. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I thought,” Sebastian sighs, long and almost defeated and it catches in between Chris’ ribs.

“I don’t know _what_ I was thinking, like I thought that they _wouldn’t_ figure it out in like five seconds, I even encouraged them to,” Sebastian berates himself, and Chris _hurts_ for it. 

“They haven’t put a name to it yet, don’t think they’re looking past my old _female_ co-stars. But, I mean, I shouldn’t ever open my mouth, ever,” which Chris takes issue with on a number of counts, but now’s not the time for that -- it’s just that whatever ferocity is blooming inside him wants to overcome him and shine out to the whole world, a truth Chris hadn’t realizes he wanted everyone to know just so he could shout it from rooftops as much as from the curbs of the street, anywhere and everywhere and _his_.

“I just, we’d talked about it, and we’ve been talking about it a lot recently, and I thought it was, I mean, I was so tired and it felt _right_ and I, I --” Chris turns just enough to see Sebastian shaking his head. “I should have asked you, again, should have made _sure_ regardless of what we might have said, and if I read it wrong, I --”

“Sebastian,” Chris turns fully and reaches out, braces hands on fine-trembling shoulders. “Seb, baby,” Chris slips a palm to crable Sebastian’s neck, a finger to tip his chin upward and meet Chris’ eyes. “Sebastian, it’s everything. It’s...”

Chris traces the open cushion of Sebastian lips with the pad of his thumb before murmuring from the deep parts of his heart:

“You’re my husband.” It still feels like a prayer on his tongue, after all this time. “You are _everything_.”

“Oh,” Sebastian breathes out, relief in it but also as if maybe it sounds like a prayer for him too. “Oh thank god,” and he wraps strong arms around Chris and holds tight and Chris doesn’t fight it, of course he doesn’t. He leans into it, rests his weight against Sebastian’s hold and it’s where Chris feels safest in all the world.

The world. The world, that knows, that’s going to know. Their life, their hearts on display but Chris doesn’t feel scared of it, doesn’t feel like he wishes it were different. He feels like he’s protected by these arms and these hands that _hold_ his heart will keep it close the whole time.

Forever.

Sebastian’s playing with his hair and kissing slowly, featherlight below his ear and down his neck, then back up again. His breath on Chris’ skin is a balm for...everything.

“If there’s a next time,” Sebastian whispers after a few long moments, twisting fingers in the fringe at Chris’ nape.

“ _When_ there’s a next time,” Chris counters, the very moment he realizes Sebastian’s talking about the awards show, because goddamn right, there will be a next time. Times, plural. Sebastian’s star is still on the rise.

“Come with me?” Sebastian asks, his voice a little small and shy. Chris pulls back just enough to see him looking up through his lashes. “It’s true. I missed you so much, I just,” he leans into Chris’ body again and breathes him in deep as he sighs: “I just wanted to feel you.”

Chris feels himself melt, his body moulding to Sebastian as it always does, like it didn’t ever have to learn but was always made to _be_.

“Of course I’ll come,” Chris tells him with a smile he presses into Sebastian’s hair. “Remember London?”

“Remember? Jesus, Chris,” Sebastian huffs a laugh. “You think I forgot when I finally pulled my head out of my ass and got the balls to call you and tell you I was madly in love with you?”

Chris chuckles, because, well, that too.

“No, I mean, yes. I’ll be there.”

Sebastian pulls back, kissing Chris full on with enough tongue to draw a moan from deep in Chris’ chest.

“But,” Sebastian murmurs, no longer bashful but full of hope with it, promise. “I don’t mean like that.”

And he pulls back, and Chris is reminded of the day Sebastian proposed to him in just hoe he takes Chris’ hand, the same delicate but sure way that makes Chris’ heart jump in the exact same way. Whether it’s because he remembers that last time or because that’s just what Chris’ heart _does_ when Sebastian looks at him like that. Touches him like that.

Admittedly, given all additional evidence over the years, it’s _probably_ the latter.

“Will you walk the carpet with me? Sit next to me?” Sebastian stokes his thumb over the pulse at Chris’ wrist. “Come as my partner, my lover? As my date?”

“Oh, wow,” Chris says, breathy as hell. “Well I mean, you know how I hate those Hollywood things,” he tries to joke, but he knows his eyes are wide and shining and so full of fucking _love_ that there’s no place for the effort to land.

“Anything,” Chris whispers, turning his hands in Sebastian’s and lacing their fingers together. “Anything for you.”

Sebastian’s breath shudders, and his eyes speak his soul too, and Sebastian’s ring is so warm and solid against Chris’ touch, and _god_ \-- 

“ _Anything_.”


End file.
